


Eavesdropping, Take Two

by stardust_made



Series: The Jealousy Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Five times John was jealous and one time he did something about it." Once again John listens outside a door, but this time it does not end quite so lightly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eavesdropping, Take Two

**Author's Note:**

> Original entry at my Livejournal [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/35236.html). A different perspective of a scene in "The Great Game"—most of the dialogue is from the episode.

  
Sherlock was in the middle of the five pips affair. John supposed he should say _they_ were in the middle of it. He also supposed he oughtn’t to feel so stupidly proud about the plural, but he couldn’t help it. Within the few months John had lived with Sherlock his well-being had improved immensely, and in straight progression John’s need for more had grown. To assert himself more; to move onto the arena of the living, those living ‘full on’.

In many ways, he associated it with Sherlock—it was his arena. Most people stopped being players and became part of the crowd whenever Sherlock stepped out. John was grateful—and yes, proud—to be down there with him. Not centre-stage, but definitely close; keeping a watchful eye, so when the lions started coming out John had his own whip at the ready.

They were both in Bart’s. Sherlock was running some tests and, as usual, not revealing their purpose—the man was never precipitous with sharing. John had popped to the loo and was just about to walk back into the lab, when he heard the pink phone ringing. He wasn’t very clear why he didn’t proceed, but stopped outside instead. The last incident of listening on Sherlock should have really taught him a lesson. John’s unwise decision to risk it and repeat the experience might have said something about the issues of trust between him and Sherlock, but regardless of his reasons he found himself rooted to his spot once again, fingers pressed gently against the cool plastic finish of the lab door.

The moment he heard Sherlock’s voice answer, John flinched as if a cube of ice had been pressed between his eyes. The pink phone’s ringtone was enough to confirm the identity of the caller, but it wasn’t necessary—the different ring in Sherlock’s “Hello.” wouldn't have left any room for doubt. John had already heard a hundred hellos from Sherlock. He knew what Sherlock’s typical ‘hello’ sounded like. He knew his impatient hello, his hopeful hello, his sullen hello, his bossy hello—he could write one of Sherlock’s monographs on the damn subject. This little greeting here was a brand new specimen.

There was a pause, filled with hushed listening, and then Sherlock spoke again.

“Why would you be giving me a clue?”

His voice had moved further on the spectrum of ambiguity, just like his bow moved across the strings of his violin —one smooth motion to one smooth sound, intensifying with each second. John had little capacity to pinpoint exactly what the trill in Sherlock’s voice conveyed, but something was already blinking in recognition.

A second pause.

And suddenly John could hear Harry’s hissing as if she was standing next to him. _Little eavesdroppers get what they deserve._ She’d told him that as she was twisting his ear, already scarlet by what it had caught through the closed door. Harry’s closed bedroom door. Behind which she and Emma had been studying.

Why was it always something subtle, something lingering on the outskirts of inappropriate but never quite there? Something to make John doubt his own perceptions and dwell further on what he’d heard. It hadn’t been anything overt with Harry and Emma—just a muffled, throaty sound, and then some heavy-loaded quiet. It wasn’t anything overt here, either. Yet it was unmistakably in the same vein, if only for John’s reaction—the same concoction of shock, discomfort, and guilty curiosity. The same stupefying inability to move away from the door.

The pause grew like a pregnant woman’s belly and John dreaded the grotesque child it would produce. He filled the silence with ghastly, intuitive guesses about what the other man was pouring into Sherlock’s ear. No, far more dangerous—into Sherlock’s brain, the very core of him. John’s jaw clenched so tightly that he felt a sharp spasm; he gasped, just as at long last Sherlock replied.

“Then why don’t you talk to me in your own voice?”

John didn’t blink for a very long time. He didn’t even breathe. He felt as if _he_ was the one covered in explosives, but unlike the poor sod out there it was as if John was present, forced to witness this twisted mating ritual. Because he had finally identified the ring in Sherlock’s tone—it was seduction. A reciprocation. An answer, a part of a dance. The other man didn’t have his own voice so he couldn’t count on his tone to convey his message unequivocally. It meant his words must have been openly flirtatious. Sherlock, on the other hand, was in full possession of his own low, deep voice. Why be pedestrian with salacious phrasing, when you could use nature’s gift and bloody _purr_ your response instead? Sherlock could have told the bomber to piss off for all John cared. It wouldn’t have mattered, because what Sherlock’s tone actually said was “I’m interested. In you.” It was silky, and inviting, and like nothing John had ever heard from him. A volcano of anger and irrational hurt erupted in John’s chest, threatening to burn the entire city and cover it with grey, thick ash so that no one could breathe under it, not ever again.

He heard a noise at the end of the corridor and his head snapped agressively in its direction. It was only a nurse pushing a wheelchair. The occupant of the wheelchair was an old man, very frail—John couldn’t see him too well; the corridor at that end was dimly lit. The old man’s head was lolling slightly and his thin hands, bouncing with the movement of the chair, were crossed in his lap. John watched one bony hand feebly lift and rummage through an old pyjama’s pocket to produce a big handkerchief. The old man took his shaky fingers to his nose to wipe it, and that was the last John saw of him—the nurse took him away into the corridor on the right.

John turned back to the door and suddenly knew he couldn’t leave, or do anything about what he'd just heard. He couldn’t even confront Sherlock—not on something as vague as the way he spoke to his beloved enemy. John was as unclear about his motives to stay as he had been when he’d stopped in his tracks to listen. But he had no energy to untangle, no time to stop and process. There were lives at stake, and John had always had a good sense of proportion. He shook himself mentally—the prolonged quiet in the room suggested the conversation was over. For a moment John cherished the illusion that it would all turn out to be a nightmare. But he knew what nightmares looked like pretty intimately by then, and this was real. He took a deep breath and walked in.

The room smelt of chemicals, disinfectants and Sherlock’s cologne. Sherlock turned to him, eyes glowing.

“Any progress?” John asked, managing neutrality.

The triumph was now written all over Sherlock’s face.

“Oh yes! Let’s go, I’ll explain later!”

“Have you got it?” John asked, breathless, realizing Sherlock's excitement might have had a different root. “Have you figured it out?”

Sherlock’s smile was wicked, incandescent, and it blazed at John, for John only. He had the answer! Thank God, he had the answer and a man’s life was saved! Some of John’s internal oppression lifted—

But the devil always made work for idle, useless brains. John kept the door open for Sherlock and swallowed before his next question.

“Have you heard from the bomber?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, storming past him. “Come on.”

 _If you eavesdrop, don’t complain about what you hear_ , John’s mother, crying, had said to his father once. John should have remembered _that_ first.


End file.
